


A Night to Repair Shirts and Remind Hearts

by anarchycox



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Domestic Tasks, Fluff, Geralt POV, Heroic Rescue, M/M, Tending Wounds, but a very quiet love, characters in love, did i mention that this was soft, hand holding, it is a fic that embraces you like memory foam, love is shown in many ways, quiet conversations, soft fic, spend the night together, words that don't need to be spoken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26920093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/pseuds/anarchycox
Summary: It seldom happens that Geralt runs into a fellow wolf on the path, and tonight luckily Eskel ran into him, and a hunt that could have gone very wrong went better than it could have. They haven't seen each other in a good bit of time, and spend the night quietly, happily together.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 60
Kudos: 266





	A Night to Repair Shirts and Remind Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annablume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annablume/gifts).



> So this is a fic where what sort of relationship Geralt and Eskel have is a little bit ambiguous. You can read it as super romantic or more veering towards deep friendship that has lasted through decades of experience and toil.
> 
> It was a joy to write this fic as an art exchange with the incredibly talented annablume.

Geralt heard the sharp whistle, one he had known for seventy or so years, and ducked as he cast quen. The Kikimore was pushed back hard, the sign throwing even its heavy weight well away from Geralt. Geralt stood and spun, a limb of the beast severed. Between the two of them, the job he had been spending hours on hunting, fighting, was over in minutes. 

Geralt knew there was poison in his shoulder, and he knocked back the correct potion. He was verging on toxicity, but that was better than dead. He looked at the body. “I can’t make it back to town to claim the money.”

“I have it, Wolf,” Eskel replied and collected the head, and a few other parts to sell. “Where is your camp?” 

Geralt looked around, and the woods blurred in his vision. He breathed in, it took a moment with all the blood and the rather extreme amount of shit a kikimore voided when it was killed, but then he caught the scent of Roach. “That way,” his throat was raw from all the potions. He looked at Eskel, dared him to suggest that Geralt couldn’t make it, but Eskel just stood there, waited. Geralt gave a small nod and Eskel’s shoulder was under his arm, helping him make the walk back. The hand that was on his torso pressed in for a moment, checking for broken ribs, perhaps hugging him in greeting, it had been two or three years since they had seen each other.

Geralt put his hand over Eskel’s, squeezed gently, to steady himself, to hug back. He let Eskel ease him down against a log, Roach nickered in greeting. “Scorpion is in town. Mind if I?”

Geralt waved a hand, “Roach, let Eskel ride you,” he ordered and knew there wouldn’t be an issue. Eskel didn’t love horses how he did, but he understood them well. He watched them canter off and settled into a light meditation, to heal, to burn the toxicity off. Eskel was alive, something he hadn’t been sure of. You could never be sure your compatriots were alive until you saw them again. It was ache that settled into the back of your mind, that you pushed down, ignored, until you caught a scent, saw a scrap of fabric that made you think of them, and then you were flooded with the wonder and worry of were they alive out there. They had ways to contact each other, but that wasn’t the way of the path.

It was left to Fate.

And that bitch really didn’t like him knowing how Eskel was surviving.

When he came back up from the meditation, there was a fire crackling even though it wasn’t that chill a night, and there was some kikimore roasting over it. They were bastards to fight, but their liver was incredibly tasty. He grunt a bit and stretched. He looked at his armor and stripped most of it off. “How long?”

“Few minutes, yet,” Eskel said and turned the spit. There was also some rabbit cooking. The combination was divine. Geralt easily caught the water skin that Eskel tossed him, and began to wash off his armor, needed to see what damage was inflicted on it. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he could attend to the work himself. Once it was clean he took a few sips from the skin and tossed it back to Eskel, who finished the last of the water in it. “There we go.” He pulled the meat off the fire and split the hare and the liver in half.

Almost half, Geralt gave him a pointed look. “Equal always.”

“I fought for a few minutes, you were at it for how long, you need the energy.” Geralt tried to nudge a bit of the food back to Eskel, but Eskel held his plate away. “Eat, Wolf.” Geralt would have continued to object but Eskel’s hand brushed his calf, lingered for a moment and he quieted. It was good, better than he could generally prepare always over cooking hare, just to be safe since Jaskier sometimes traveled with him and humans and undercooked game was a bad combination. They ate in silence and then Geralt repaired his armor. 

When he was finished he held out his hand and a shirt was placed in it. He checked it over, and there were a ripped seam at the shoulder and a few other tears. Geralt handed his potions bag to Eskel, and they both set to work. Geralt mending Eskel’s clothes, Eskel making some potions for Geralt. Each to their strengths. Geralt went through his supply bag and chuckled a bit. The only thread he had to hand was some purple of Jaskier’s, not the usual simple tan the witchers used to mend their clothes. He could make the stitches as subtle as possible or have some fun.

Geralt looked to Eskel who was incredibly focused as he worked by the fire. The flames cast shadow and light against his face. He sat with Geralt as he wouldn’t with others - the firelight easily showing his scars, painting them red, almost tormented though they had been healed for a long time now. Geralt pulled the beeswax from the bag as well as the needle. He ran the thread through the wax a few times and set to work. The shoulder seam he repaired neatly, only the barest hint of the purple could be seen. The one tear was large enough it was difficult to hide the thread so it was noticeable as a repair but there was a rip, that would rest close to Eskel’s heart, from a dagger or a claw. He looked at the tear. “Leshen?”

“Mmm, that or a harpy. Hard to remember, that one’s been torn up for a while, was almost ready to tear it into rags.” Eskel was carefully pouring a potion into a bottle. “It is past the repair point.”

Geralt rolled his eyes a bit, “No, it isn’t. You just cannot sew.”

“Sew myself back together just fine.”

“That’s debatable,” Geralt muttered, “I mean look at the job you did on your thigh twenty years ago. These stitches are easy, Eskel.”

“My fingers are a lot bigger than yours, not so good with the delicate work.”

“They’ve handled delicate work a time or two just fine,” Geralt said with a soft smile that Eskel met with his own grin. Geralt prepped the thread and first repaired the slash mark and then settled in. “Fall or spring?” he asked.

“You know fall,” Eskel replied. “Geralt, you aren’t using thunderbolt?”

“No, had a few bad reactions, mixed poorly with cat,” Geralt made the tear spot look like a branch, and started to stitch falling leaves from it. He wondered if he’d be able to see Eskel’s reaction when he saw the purple thread, or if like all the other times they met on the road one of them would awake and disappear. But that was the morning, and it was still a time off.

“It shouldn’t,” Eskel was pawing through his potions and for a moment Geralt stopped to watch his fellow wolf, his -. He went back to the task at hand, stitching intricate leaves into the linen. He was pleased with his work and cut the thread away. “What the fuck did you put in here, Geralt?”

“What I could find. Any other mending?”

“My drawers,” Eskel teased. Geralt just held out his hand and Eskel stripped naked and tossed them to Geralt. He settled on the ground well comfortable in his own nudity, as all the wolves were. “How aren’t you dead?”

“Mostly luck,” Geralt had to guess. He glanced at the line of Eskel’s thigh. “New burn there.”

“Acid spit,” Eskel said. “Pretty good story.”

“I would like to hear it,” Geralt checked over the thin fabric, warm from the heat of Eskel’s skin. The waistband was in poor repair and he attended to that and then he decided to amuse himself, and stitched little hearts all over the arse of the drawers. Sweet little ones forming a larger heart. He listened to the story that Eskel told. He didn’t have the rise and fall, that orator style that Jaskier did. It was a matter of fact retelling, and held him far more rapt that the bard’s stories. It was also honest a word that seemed to have not been involved in the mastery of the seven liberal arts. Eskel’s voice was low, rich, as well tempered as ever. Geralt could count on both hands the times Eskel had shouted. 4 had been frustration with Lambert, one had been fear for Vesemir during an attack, and the other three were at night, them alone, shouts only for Geralt. He finished the drawers and put them to the side.

Eskel knew he was safe with Geralt, and wouldn’t dress again until morning. “There all fixed. Go to a herbalist, for fuck’s sake Geralt.” Eskel was shaking his head. “You could have shit yourself to death, and then what sort of song would your bard sing?”

Geralt barked out a laugh, “I promise he would make it the most noble and heart achingly brilliant shitting death there ever was.” He put the supplies to the side, a bit too lazy to put them away, content to be with Eskel. Geralt lay down on the bedroll. He stretched his arms a bit and winced. “Kikimore always takes a bit to heal.”

“Well perhaps that is because you never take the right potion, at the right time,” Eskel chided. He came over and checked the wound, poured something on it and it did feel better. “There is more to the path than your sword, Wolf. Though your bard certainly implies that your sword is far mightier than I remember.” There was a very exaggerated glance to his cock in his breeches. “Tell me did your sword really tame -”

“Do not finish that sentence. I hate that song, so much.” Geralt covered his eyes with his arm, and felt Eskel lay next to him. “It took me three listens to realize what the song was about, which does prove his theory that I am a bit of a simpleton on cultural matters.”

“Is that what he said?”

“No, what he said was _you have the taste and cultural awareness of a swine. No never mind I once met a pig who could count in perfect 3/4ths time. You have the soul of a weevil._ We were eating some rather infested bread as he shouted it.”

“You sound happy when you talk about him.” Geralt thought that Eskel sounded happy that Geralt was happy.

“It is odd to have a…friend that walks the path with me sometimes.”

“The path is meant to be alone.”

“I know,” Geralt put his arm down and his knuckles brushed Eskel’s. Their hands stayed where they were. “But sometimes the noise is nice. And villages have started paying less, times are hard. Weeks I would have never had enough food, his songs keep me fed.”

“I am glad you have him then.”

“I haven’t had him,” Geralt whispered. Eskel didn’t respond to that. “We aren’t - he is my friend.” He knew Eskel wouldn’t say anything to that, but Geralt hope he understood, something that Geralt didn’t even fully understand. There were no promises on the path. But Eskel’s knuckles brushed his again. He smiled a bit. “So,” he drawled slowly, “what was the best?”

“Best what?” Eskel teased gently.

“Well I am not asking what your best stitch is because decades and you still can’t repair anything,” Geralt teased back. “A backstitch, Eskel, it isn’t even hard. You jam a needle in and then back through the previous spot.” Geralt lay there. “Best moment since I saw you last.”

“What you would consider the best, or what I would consider the best?”

“Either, just let me hear you?” Geralt didn’t care what Eskel said so long as he could hear the man’s voice hold it close. He had almost forgotten how low and husky it was, the small catch in it when certain sounds pulled the muscles that had been torn and repaired along his cheek and jaw. Geralt turned his head and looked at Eskel, watched him speak. Eskel didn’t push his chin to stop staring, or roll to hide.

Geralt was always allowed to see him.

“And that is how I ended up in bed with a doppler, a succubus, and Calanthe, queen of Cintra.”

“Wait, really?” Geralt frowned. “The Calanthe makes it clear that is a lie. She’d orgy sure, but not with magical beings.”

“I was seeing if you were paying attention.”

“Of course I was,” Geralt protested. He had been paying attention to the important things, memorizing Eskel’s voice again, breathing in that scent of magic, leather, and fellow wolf. Watching how moonlight played on his skin, the shadows and light on the plains of his face. How he seemed thicker in the chest and thigh. Changes that the time apart had wrought. “Was that really your best moment?”

“Sure it was, or a wyvern I killed, a gwent championship I won, anything and everything except saving your life and camping with you tonight, was the best moment since I saw you last.” Eskel’s knuckles brushed his again, letting Geralt know the truth of what was his best moment. “What was your best moment?”

“I made friends with a godling. Trying to convince them the swamps of Velen aren’t the best for them. Suggested our mountains. Also won a gwent championship. I saw Regis.”

“How did that go?”

“He talks a lot. It is nice.”

“Have you noticed that all your favourite people talk a lot?” Eskel asked. His pinkie hooked over Geralt’s. “You like listening to people.”

“I do,” Geralt agreed. “The people that are willing to talk to me are few enough in number, I hold them dear.”

“I’m always willing to talk to you, wolf,” Eskel said quietly.

“So talk to me. Tell me about a good hunt,” Geralt said. “A real story this time, enough lies from Jaskier.” Eskel chuckled at that, which made Geralt smile. Eskel really was the beautiful one of them all. “Something that paints you in a dashing and heroic light. With swooning.”

“Thought you wanted the truth. Who is swooning over me?”

Geralt squeezed that pinkie hooked over his, but didn’t say the things that popped into his mind - they weren’t his voice, they were Jaskier’s demanding that words be said. But that wasn’t Geralt’s way, their way after their decades of knowing, seeing. He squeezed again and it was enough. He listened to the tale and then gave one of his own. In between increasingly silly stories, Eskel lectured him more about his potions, and Geralt gave sewing tips. 

They occasionally stared at each other, knew their could be more, but also knowing it wouldn’t be enough. Tomorrow they’d move on and it wouldn’t have been enough. This was enough if they let it, because anymore wouldn’t be. They went from holding pinkies to fingers completely entwined by the time dawn arose. “You need sleep, to finish healing that wound,” Eskel said. “I can stand guard.”

“I close my eyes, you’ll have disappeared. If you even were here. Maybe I dreamed you, because I have missed you that much.”

“Have you?”

“Tell me you’ll be home this winter,” Geralt begged. “That you’ll make it home safe.”

“No promises on the path, wolf,” Eskel said. “Tell me you’ll be better with your potions. That you won’t drop your left all the fucking time. That I’ll see you again.”

Geralt closed his eyes. “No promises on the path.”

“If we were the sort to give them,” Eskel spoke softly, their hands were hot, the skin sweaty and neither let go.

Geralt nodded, “If we were the sort.”

“Sleep, heal, I have you.” Eskel swore and Geralt knew that was true. Eskel had decades of practice keeping him safe.

More than.

He hoped Eskel knew how much it mattered to him. He always thought there were things they should say, but he never could say them. He didn’t have the words for what Eskel was to him. Geralt hoped they’d both live another century, maybe then he’d be able to declare it all. “One promise, just a small one,” Geralt asked.

“What?”

“Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“That is a small enough one,” Eskel agreed and started talking again and Geralt fell asleep to Eskel’s voice like he had when they were ten, and fifty, and whatever they were now. It was a deep sleep, a healing one, and he knew he’d wake alone, because there were no promises on the path.

He was healed when he woke in the late afternoon, the camp well taken care of and he smiled when he collected his bags and saw a couple extra potions in the sack. A few days later, he and Jaskier ran into each other and continued on together. They were camped and it was a perfect night really.

“That shirt stinks, Geralt, give it here, I’ll wash it with my in the morning,” Jaskier had a small pile of clothes atop his pack. Geralt took it off and threw it to him. “Any others?”

Geralt checked his bag, and his other shirt probably could use a wash and tossed that to Jaskier as well. He was staring into the fire, thinking of nothing in particular.

“Geralt, this is just the worst repair job ever. You stitch so much better than this? Were you drunk?” 

Geralt looked up at the shirt from his pack. “That one didn’t need any repairs, it is fine.” 

“Here, on the left arm. The place maidens generally embroider a bit to show their affection for a man.”

Geralt snorted, “did some laundress stitch her affection for my coin?”

“No, it, well honestly, I’d say that the stitches almost look like claw marks? Weird.”

“Toss it back.” Geralt caught the thrown shirt and stared at the shoulder. The stitches were awful, just awful, uneven, ragged, pulled the linen.

They were backstitches.

In the pattern of Eskel’s scars, so that Geralt could always see them. 

“No promises on the path,” Geralt laughed and ran his fingers over the rough stitches. His laugh grew, and when that was done he was still smiling.

“Bad sewing made you that happy?” Jaskier seemed surprised but happy to hear Geralt’s joy.

“It is a promise, a small one,” Geralt said. “Wash this shirt carefully?”

“Of course,” Jaskier looked at him. “Guess that means it was a good promise then.”

Geralt nodded. “Tell me a happy tale, of friends and lovers reuniting?”

“With pleasure, dear witcher.”

Geralt listened to Jaskier spin a tale and in a small corner of his heart, let a bit of hope take up residence.

They’d see each other again.

There was a small promise to keep.


End file.
